The Noir Novel

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “She talked kind of funny and low and it was hard to understand her,” Gwynn continued. “From what I could piece together it was an accident because she had the idea the dope was meant for her.”

  “Accident.” I winced at the burn of the styptic pencil. “Something about shoving her drink back next to yours when she was showing Mike some sort of book, then she got the wrong one when you came back to the table. She called Mike a name I wouldn’t even mention.”

  I started to say something, but Gwynn was still wound up with excitement.

  “I tried to get her to come back here to talk to you.”

  “Good.”

  “But just then she ran out on me.” Gwynn lowered her eyes. “She just turned around and ran out. While I was talking to her, she was looking out toward the street, behind me, and I think it was the man who scared her.”

  “Man?” I turned away from the mirror. “What man?”

  “He was a real creep, whoever he was.” Gwynn shuddered. “I’ve never seen him before. He was little and thin and very unhealthy looking. Dark brown suit and black shoes. His face was pitted and his eyes were that awful milky blue. He was enough to scare anyone.”

  It didn’t sound like anyone I’d ever run into. “Did you notice the room number on the key?” I asked quickly.

  “3C,” Gwynn said.

  I finished shaving as fast as I could, took my shirt and tie off the hook, and admitted I felt better.

  “If she’s scared she’s probably ready to do a fast fade on us,” I cinched the knot in my tie. “I’ve got to get over to that hotel fast. Loan me the car?”

  “Better than that,” Gwynn said. “I’ll drive.”

  “Uh-uh,” I shook my head. “You’re staying here.”

  “Uh-uh, yourself,” she said. “I go too.” She looked up at me and her eyes said many things she probably didn’t know they were saying.

  “The cops will be after me by now,” I said.

  “If you’re not guilty of anything it doesn’t matter.”

  “I ought to knock your block off,” I said. “I ought to.”

  I slipped on my coat and we took off.

  * * * *

  The Taylor was a dump whose front windows hadn’t been washed in months and the sidewalk was a litter of filth. I signaled Gwynn to park in front of a machine shop a block beyond the place. She pulled in and as I started to get out she put her hand on mine to stop me and I waited.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you your business,” she began. “That means you’re going to?”

  She shook her head. “Just a suggestion, Steve. If the girl talks, you’re going to get a pretty fair picture of what happened last night.”

  I nodded.

  “But she’s not the kind who’ll spill everything. Don’t hold out for the whole story before you go to the police with it. Don’t try to do it all by yourself.”

  I shrugged. “It depends on what I find out and which side of the fence it puts me on,” I said. “The bosses are big. When something like this happens there’re times when they don’t care who takes the rap as long as the thing is covered up and quieted down. I’ve got to know what I’m mixed up in before I talk to anybody.”

  I climbed out of the car, winked a kiss at her, hoofed it back to the hotel, and swung into the place like I owned it because there are times when the best defense is a strong offense.

  The clerk had his head in a newspaper and didn’t look up as I came through the door. I kept on going, keeping an eye on him because the stairs were straight ahead, and you had to pass the desk to get to them, which was bad. Some other day I’d be lucky, but not today. Just as I stepped even with the clerk he lowered the paper and gave me the once-over. He was a hard-faced old monkey with the kind of eyes that remember. He didn’t say anything, just watched as I hurried past him and up the steps.

  3C was at the end of the hall next to an unwashed window through which the light forced its way. The carpet on the floor was threadbare, the perfect complement to the diseased, scabby look of the door, which had once been painted grey but now was a mottled color all its own. I knocked cautiously.

  There wasn’t any answer and I knocked again. Maybe I was too late. I leaned against the door and listened for some sound inside. The catch snapped hollowly in the frame and the door moved back a fraction of an inch. It was unlocked. I shoved it open and stepped inside.

  The blind—a green, light-scarred affair—was pulled down over the window and it was a moment before my eyes began to adjust to the dimness to make out the form of the bed, an iron antique with a high, ornamented foot and head. There was a bureau to my right, a straight-backed chair next to it, and the odor of perfume hung heavily in the close air: strong with the heat of the day, cheap and sentimental. I crossed over to the window, pulled at the shade and let it snap up.

  When I turned around my stomach crawled inside me for the second time that day. The only sound in the room was the flap-flap of the blind behind me. The girl was on the bed, sprawled on her side, her face turned away from me. She lay perfectly still, still enough to make my skin crawl.

  Slowly, I crossed around the bed. I went just so far, then stopped although the thing inside my gut sprang forward, clawing and spitting. I wanted to yell, to scream out all the filthy things I’d ever learned in all those years on the way up. I wanted to yell until the noise drove away the sight in front of me.

  Somebody had been at her throat with a knife.

  Chapter Three

  Apparently she had decided to change out of the red dress because it had made her too easy to spot, and all she had on was a pair of brief silk pants, rolled stockings, and the patent leather shoes. The hot sunlight poured through the window and glinted obscenely against the black shiny high heels, shooting out little sparks of dancing light.

  Even now her body was a beautiful thing to see, a beautiful and troublesome body stilled by sudden death. Her breasts were perfectly molded mounds of what had once been warm flesh. She had been too beautiful for her own good; that body of hers had given too many rotten guys too many rotten ideas. Poor unhappy girl…I hoped she was at peace…

  A hatred swelled up inside me, like a hot stone that rested solidly next to my heart, and I was glad it was there. I hated the kind of life that had brought the girl and me together in this room like this. I hated the rackets. Standing in that dirty dismal room filled with death I decided to pay them off. Pay them off for her, anyone else like her, for Gwynn and myself.

  Her bag was on the bureau and I opened it. The wad of bills was gone. They hadn’t been satisfied with killing her; they had to pick her pockets too; but this didn’t surprise me. It was par for the course.

  I turned around and caught sight of a slip of paper under the bed, and reached for it. The kid had started to write a letter in a wide, angular, and hurried scrawl.

  Dear Vicki:

  I’m coming back to town today. Still if I shouldn’t…

  That was all.

  I rummaged her purse, removed a small, leather address book, and thumbed quickly through it. There were many names but I didn’t go over them carefully because I was looking up Vicki. Finally I found her back with the M’s. Vicki Mercer. She lived on Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles and had a Crestview number.

  After I shoved the sheet of paper and the book into my pocket I went through the drawers of the bureau and the overnight bag on the floor beside the bed and this sickened me some. I didn’t find what I wanted: the black book she’d had with her at the Prospector. Checking through the closet and the light black cloth coat that hung there didn’t reveal the book.

  Passing the bed I couldn’t help looking down at her and taking in the scars on her arms. I could’ve cried for her. I should have guessed it from the crazy talk the night before but it’s hard to tell with some of them. She had been a junkie. She hadn’t missed any stops; she’d had the works. For her sake I was glad she was dead where they couldn’t get at her any more, where she couldn’t get at
herself.

  I went back to the door, but before leaving turned around to take a good long remembering look at the thing on the bed that had once been a decent and pretty girl. I made myself memorize it all: the dingy sunlight glinting on the heels, the crazy grin on her face, the way her hand hung limp over the side of the bed.

  The back stairs led me into an alley, and the alley to the street where I circled back to the car, climbed in and slumped in the seat.

  “What happened, Steve?” Gwynn asked as I focused on the hood ornament.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, still unable to look at her. What did she have to do with murder in dingy hotel rooms? “Step on it.”

  She pulled away from the curb and taking the back streets headed back toward the apartment.

  “Whenever you want to talk,” she said as she drove. “I’m here to listen.”

  “I’m taking off for L.A.,” I said. “I’ll have to take the car. You can say I stole it.”

  “They’ll be looking for you by now.” Her hands were tight on the wheel. “They’ll stop you at the state line.”

  “Maybe I’ll have to race them for it.”

  “You could stay here and fight it out. As long as you really didn’t kill Mike—”

  “It’s beyond that now.” I turned to her. “I’ll have to drop you off somewhere.”

  “I’m going with you,” she said. “Maybe I can at least get you through the inspection.”

  “Use your head!”

  “I am. You need someone to drive you over the line. It’ll be a lot easier for me. I’m not arguing with your going. I’m just trying to help you.”

  I reached out, turned off the ignition, and we drifted to a stop at the curb where I looked at her for a long moment. Somehow I had to make her understand what she was messing with.

  “Gwynn, the girl’s dead,” I said. “Her throat cut.” I saw her turn white. “The clerk in the dump can identify me. This is no game. If you’re smart you’ll get out of this car and walk away as fast as you can.”

  She shoved my hand away and started the car again. “I’m not smart,” she said, half in anger. “And I hate to walk.” She yanked hard on the wheel to swing the car around in the direction of the highway.

  “It’s your funeral,” I said. “And that may not be just a figure of speech.”

  I hunched low in the seat until we cleared the town. After we’d passed Gambling Row I sat up, stared out at the open desert, and prayed that King Barnes hadn’t seen Gwynn with me. He was the one bastard who would go very far out of his way to make trouble.

  “When we get through,” I said, “I’ll take the wheel.” Gwynn nodded. Suddenly she was very silent, very deep within herself.

  * * * *

  The checking station, bleak and alone in the desert, was a white board affair at one side of the highway. As we rounded the curve to approach it there were four big trailer-trucks under the checking stand, which was a break for us: the boys would be too busy to give a lone girl too much attention.

  I pulled back the seat and lifted the cover over the opening into the luggage compartment. It was hot and awkward but I managed to twist myself around the seat and into it while Gwynn kept her eyes ahead on the road.

  “There’s a blanket back there,” she said. “You can cover yourself in case they decide to open the trunk.”

  “If they open the trunk,” I grunted, “we can forget everything.”

  “Don’t suffocate.”

  “Stop talking.”

  I sank back into the compartment, the perspiration began to trickle down my ears and throat, and I found out how a ham feels when it’s slipped into the oven. As I eased my protesting spine into a figure CI felt the car slow down.

  We stopped and there was some conversation with a guy who sounded hot and distracted as Gwynn explained that she was just on her way to L.A. for a little shopping and she didn’t have any fruits or vegetables concealed in the back.

  “Will I have to wait for the trucks?” she asked. “I’m expected in Los Angeles early by friends.”

  “Go on through, lady,” the man said. “It’s too hot to wait around here.”

  The car started up again, bumped over the shoulder and moved back onto the highway. I waited for a suffocating minute until Gwynn rapped on the seat, then eased out for deep breaths of air.

  “Simple,” I gasped.

  “Sure,” Gwynn said. “Nothing to it.” She didn’t want to talk.

  A little further down the highway she pulled up and we traded places. I felt better taking over at the wheel because it was good to have control of something. As we rode Gwynn sat in the far corner and looked out at the passing desert. She had her thoughts and I had mine. It looked like it was going to stay that way.

  I had a job of saving to do on myself. I had to dig deep to remember every smart thing I had learned in twenty years of experience. I had to think hard and without sentiment if I wanted to live. It wasn’t easy.

  It was a long ride along the back roads that kept us off the main highway. Once we stopped at a lonely gas station for gas and cokes but the old gaffer who took care of us didn’t even give us a blink. We were just another couple in a dusty heap to him. He’d never remember us in a hundred years.

  As we left the desert the long and purple shadows began to stretch around us. Gwynn kept her distance; by now she knew that a gap was steadily widening between us, but in the twilight she looked at me with compassionate pity.

  “Does this put us back at zero, Steve?” she asked. “Do we just forget these last three months?”

  “That’s a tough question.”

  “But it’s got an answer. Every question’s got an answer. I know you’re into something you can’t turn back from. But where do I come in?”

  I had to give it to her straight and there was no point in putting it off. “You don’t,” I said.

  “That’s clear enough.”

  “You don’t belong in this. A deal like this isn’t for someone like you. It started rotten and it’s going to get worse.”

  “Then it is zero, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  She smoothed her skirt. “I hate it, Steve.”

  “I hate a lot of things,” I told her and kept my eyes ahead on the road.

  * * * *

  It was after dark, the way I wanted it, when we hit the outskirts of L.A. We had come in through Pasadena and Glendale, shoving through traffic, taking our time.

  Continuing toward Hollywood we stopped for a signal and I motioned to the newsboy in the middle of the street. He ran over, slipped me the paper, and palmed my coin, all in one motion. As the light changed I handed the paper to Gwynn.

  “Better see if I’m a celebrity yet,” I said.

  It took her only a moment to find it because she didn’t have to go beyond the front page and she read it to me, a bit at a time, as we moved under the light of the street lamps. It was bad, even worse than I had thought it would be. The police were on the lookout for me. There was an account of the colored maid’s discovery of Mike’s body and my “threat on her life.” The girl’s body had been discovered too. Ann Gunther was her name. The clerk had identified me as the last to see her alive. Although they described me as a suspect, it was only a technicality because the wording of the story didn’t leave any margin of doubt as to the murderer. My argument with Mike at the Prospector was a “love quarrel” and the conclusion was that I had blown my cork with jealousy.

  The police were certain I had fled Vegas but would be apprehended soon as there was an all-points alert out for me and my picture was splashed at the top of the story: a cut-out from a group photograph that I had posed for with a gang of visiting gambling notables three years ago. But the blow-up had made it too fuzzy to make it good for an identification.

  “A nice neat package all ready for deep freezing,” I commented.

  “It’s crazy,” Gwynn said miserably. “It’s insane.”

  “Never thou
ght you’d be riding around with a love-crazed maniac, did you?” was my bad joke of a reply.

  “Stop it, Steve!” Her voice tripped on a sob.

  A little later we crossed Hollywood Boulevard, spotted a small hotel, and pulled up a block away.

  “Here’s where it happens,” I said, trying to keep it light. “This is where I get off.”

  She didn’t look at me right away. “I don’t know, Steve,” she said helplessly. “Isn’t there some other way?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe for some other guy. I’ve tried to make you understand but you don’t even know the language. Be glad you don’t.”

  “Do you have enough money?”

  I patted my wallet. “A month’s pay and bonus.”

  “I guess there’s nothing I can do,” she said in a small voice. “Do I just drive away now and pretend it never happened?”

  I nodded. “That’s it.”

  “And if I want to know what happened to you I can read the papers?”

  “I guess so.”

  Her lips began to tremble, but she held it in.

  “Will I see you again—sometime?”

  “It’s a gambling proposition,” I said. “If I win I may be back.”

  “Let me know if I can help.”

  I shook my head on that one. “This is out of your territory. When you get back to town don’t admit to anyone you’ve seen me. Just remember that”—my voice trailed off.

  But she wasn’t listening anymore. It was getting tougher for her by the minute. I threw the car door open and got out. “Take care of yourself,” I said. “So long.”

  I turned away, rounded the car, and started toward the hotel. She rolled down the window and called, but I didn’t turn back. A moment later, when I looked around, she was gone.

  Chapter Four

  The punk behind the desk was reading a bright covered cops and robbers magazine under the glare of a bald light in a wall fixture. He was too young to be in charge of a hotel. When I walked up he didn’t even bother to get off his can. “With or without?” he asked, leaning back.